


When You Break

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternative Lifestyles, Bad Days, Caretaking, Collars, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Double Oral Penetration, F/M, Fluff, Love, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Polyamory, Rough Oral Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: After an awful day, you come home to two men who want nothing more than to take care of you. As their lifestyle submissive, what are you to do but obey? Written for a friend upon request!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698223
Comments: 9
Kudos: 107





	When You Break

Geralt knew something was amiss the moment you entered the house the three of you shared – a Witcher, a bard, and their beloved – dumping your bag down unceremoniously and rubbing your fisted hands over your tired eyes.

He knew because you neglected to adopt a dutiful kneel upon the luxurious square of leather they’d had monogrammed with your initials, a place for you to wait patiently until either he or Jaskier secured your indoor collar. It was a ritual when you returned to the home. Instead, you cursed as your bag toppled over and gleefully spilled contents of your daily life; coins, your bound journal, beeswax balm for your lips.

“What the fuck is _this?_ ” Jaskier growled, entering the hallway to see you fussing over the items, “I thought us far, far beyond such basics. If you’ve no collar, why aren’t you kneeling?”

“Jaskier…” Geralt’s baritone was a low warning, but the bard ignored it.

“Get on your _knees._ ” He commanded you, and you met his eyes briefly; the tropical blue had succumbed to a storm, darkening, and you paused in what you were doing. Glaring at his feet, silent, you went to the leather square and dropped into a proper kneel; feet together, spine straight, hands at your thighs with palms up. “Can’t _believe_ you. She’s scowling, Geralt.” Jaskier raged.

“Jaskier, I said _leave her be._ ” Geralt’s voice was a challenge, whip-quick.

“Leave her—are you _mad,_ love? She comes in with a sourpuss, fussing over her bag instead of kneeling, and I— _oh._ Oh, no.”

Tears were striping your cheeks in silent, marching tracks. You were shaking with the effort to suppress your sobs. But Gods, you still wanted to be good. In half-a-second, Jaskier was kneeling in front of you, cupping your face.

“Hey, baby, baby, look at me? Look? Baby, are you hurt? What happened?” Gone was the tempest; his tone was as gentle as brushing bird-wings, filled with the empathy that the bard personified. His concern broke your resolve, and you choked out a wretched cry.

“Oh, little duck.” Geralt’s rarely used pet-name for you rumbled in your ear. You knew he hated big displays of emotion; he found them difficult to navigate, and would usually defer to Jaskier. For him to be stroking the stray strands of hair from your forehead, crouched at your side – you must’ve looked as bad as you felt. “Bad day?”

The simple question fractured the fault-line in your dam, and you sat back on your heels, covering your face with your hands. You began to weep openly, the wail of your despair leaking through the cracks between your fingers. Arms surrounded you – Jaskier’s, you could feel – and you slumped into the bard’s body as he held you tight, inviting you to nuzzle into the hair of his chest exposed carelessly by a half-undone linen shirt. You weaved your fingers into the fabric to clutch, your misery bleeding onto his skin in salty, wet drops.

For a time he just held you, murmured a soft apology, let you exhaust the day into him. Geralt’s hand was at your back, a gentle circular stroke, soothing. He was letting you know he was nearby without monopolising Jaskier’s grip upon you. After a few minutes, you began to relax, hiccuping. Geralt offered you a clean square of cloth – you recognised the wolf’s head you’d embroidered onto the corner yourself – and you blew your nose, trying to reclaim some semblance of control.

“I’m sorry,” You croaked, “I just… it’s been…”

“ _Shh,_ baby.” Jaskier purred, “Shh now. Will you let us take care of you? Make you feel a little better? There’s no need for apologies. Gods know I know how shitty it can be out there.” He kissed your forehead, your temples; you felt emotion swell within you again.

“I can be good.” You promised, weakly, “We can start over. I’ll kneel, and— _oop!_ ”

Geralt had stolen you away, lifting you effortlessly into his enormous arms. “You _are_ good.” He informed you, as he began to walk to the bedroom the three of you shared (complete with a custom-made mattress, considering Geralt’s bulk, and honestly, your penchant for starfish-sprawling and forcing them into corners). Once at the bed, he sat, and gently stood you before him. He began to undress you with careful fingers, slipping your shirt from your body, undoing the buttons of your trousers. He left your undergarments on.

“Our sweet thing is naa- _aked_.” Jaskier sing-songed; he’d not been far when Geralt carried you, and you had to smile when he pressed his lips against your neck, butterfly smooches that he knew made you ticklish. He wasn’t referring to your state of undress – he was talking about your lack of collar.

“Shall I fetch it?” You asked, your voice still small, but slightly stronger. Geralt grunted.

“You shall lay face-down on the bed, little duck. Head in my lap.” He instructed, and you nodded obediently. He tugged his shirt free from his body, revealing the mouth-watering expanse of his scar-speckled chest, but he left his breeches on. His feet were already bare. He climbed backwards onto the bed and you followed, slinking onto the bedspread, pillowing your head in your arms, using his massive thighs for further support. Immediately his hands were in your hair, freeing it from clips you’d used to contain it for the day. He began to stroke the strands, and your neck, his thick fingers slow and careful.

Behind you, you felt Jaskier remove your shoes, the sound of them thudding against the ground heavy. “Have we oil here, darling?” He addressed Geralt; you heard the bard scuffling about on the bedside table.

The Witcher laughed, and you thrilled at the way it vibrated through his whole being. “I believe we’ve oil in the living room and the damn _hallway_ by now, love. If we don’t have any in the bedroom, something’s amiss.”

“Or we’ve run out… ah! No, it’s just rolled onto the floor.” You had to giggle at their conversation, and the truth of it. The three of you were insatiable and impatient. There was probably a vial of oil in the gardens, too. “I’m going to rub your legs, baby.” He spoke again, and you purred your consent. “A long day means sore feet.”

Geralt was making you melt with his talented hands; he knew better than to brush your hair – you were particular about that – but he gave the most divine scalp massages. You breathed of the unique scent of him; masculine and sharp, all cedar-wood and the faint citrus of the balm he used for Roach’s tack. Remnants of the soap you made specifically for him clung to his skin, too; he favoured clean salt, as well as the faintest trace of rose. The combination was comforting.

Jaskier’s hands slicked together as he warmed the oil, and you shivered slightly when he smoothed it from the tops of your thighs, all the way down to your feet. And then—

Oh, _and then—_

Geralt had strong hands, yes, but Jaskier’s were clever. He kneaded your flesh with the perfect amount of pressure, finding every sore knot that your legs stubbornly hoarded, persuading the muscle to relinquish its hold. He could be so _very_ persuasive. The stroke of his thumbs began at your feet, and worked up your calves. By the time he was at your knees, you were whimpering at the sensation.

“Feel good, baby?” His voice was a gentle whisper in the room that had become a sanctuary; you, their deity, worshipped on a cushiony altar, greedy with their every sacrifice. You answered him with a muffled noise, your face in the bend of Geralt’s knee. He was smoothing the roots of your hair at your neck, the gentle tugging such a hedonistic feeling.

“I think that means ‘yes’, love.” Geralt mused, smiling.

“Mmm.” Jaskier agreed, “It’s funny. Legs are such neglected things. When we think massage, we think shoulders, back, maybe head – but your legs carry you. They need love, too.” His hands, at your thighs, worked in skillful strokes.

“Hmm.” Geralt’s signature sound filtered from his chest, as he stroked the sensitive sides of your neck, careful with any tension points. You were fairly sure you’d become liquid at this point, no longer a person; they’d simply have to bottle you.

Jaskier’s touch worked higher and higher up your thighs until your noises became a constant whimper; the bard smirked to himself, trading a glance with Geralt. “I’m slipping your knickers down, baby.” He told you; you made a noise that was meant to be ‘yes’ but sounded far more like a moan. You felt the fabric slide down your supple legs, and then his hands were at the cheeks of your bum, working at the tension there.

It felt good, so damn good. It was a place you carried a lot of stress; the strong muscles helped to balance your core, taking the weight of your torso. He mercilessly worked the knots into submission, starting at your hips, ‘til he was parting your cheeks with his hands, smoothing your skin in circles.

And Gods, you were equal parts relaxed and turned on. It did not take Jaskier long to call this out.

“What’s _this,_ baby?” He cooed, tracing your inner thigh. Your hands fisted the material of Geralt’s trousers at the tracing, intimate touch. “This doesn’t look like oil.” You heard him suck his fingertips, and a shudder wracked your spine. “Doesn’t taste like oil.”

“Doesn’t smell like oil.” Geralt’s voice was a dark-sky scrape, the yield of day to night. “Hasn’t since you began touching her. Smells like our baby is _turned on_.”

His voice made your nipples pucker, and you bit your lower lip. Jaskier made the beeswax balm you kept in your bag himself, because both of them were guilty of making you abuse the flesh of your mouth with your own teeth. “Is he right?” Jaskier gasped, as if shocked, “Are you _wet_ for us, baby?”

“Mmmhh…” You nuzzled further into Geralt’s thigh, “…yes.” The confirmation was muffled by the Witcher’s flesh, and although both men heard it, Geralt turned your head ever-so slightly. Your cheeks were blazingly hot to the touch, and his dirty smirk was the first thing your blinking eyes saw. _Fuck_. “Yes.” You admitted, more audibly, “I-I’m wet for you.”

“Thought so.” Jaskier crooned, rubbing your cheeks again, using the momentum to part your thighs slowly. You obeyed, and felt Geralt’s body tense up slightly beneath you at the fresh exposure of your scent. You’d once asked him to describe it to you, and he’d been quite unable – the best way he could put it, he’d said, was like drawing in a breath of something you’d never known you’d wanted before, but would now do anything in your power to possess.

“What to do with such a needy thing, love?” Geralt asked, with your legs spread for Jaskier’s amusement; you swore you could _feel_ his eyes upon your glistening slit, and the thought made you hotter.

“We indulge her, of course.” Jaskier scoffed, “Can you imagine the noise if we do not? She’ll be rubbing against our legs, trying to get off on your thigh as you work on your armour, or begging to warm my cock as I compose. No, she’ll be too much of a distraction.” The bard’s words were like the swath of silk on your hot skin, torturous as he conjured imagery; he wasn’t wrong, though.

“Wouldn’t want that.” Geralt’s reply was almost a snarl. You tried not to squirm.

Jaskier’s breath was suddenly at your cunt, the whorl of it hot, and you instinctively arched the small of your back in response, begging. He grinned. “Such a slut for it.” He praised; you only had seconds to bask in the words, before his mouth was upon you.

He talked a lot, Jaskier did – you suspected the over-use of his vocabulary was why he had such a strong, direct tongue. He swiped the slick of you in long licks from your buzzing clit to your needy hole, pausing to explore the weeping wetness there with a flicking tip before he repeated the process again and again. It was just foreplay, and already you were panting, rocking back against his face. The way they’d expertly prepared you had you so vulnerable, so wanting.

“She’s rutting like a bitch in heat.” Geralt remarked, and you hissed at the degrading observation, another trickle of wetness dripping for Jaskier to consume. He purred against your folds, nosing his way beneath you to capture the pearl of your clit between his lips. You felt him turn so he was laying on his back; it was a better position to pleasure you from, and it also gave him access to enter you with his clever, calloused fingers. You were so fucking wet that he began with two, and the burning stretch of it made you buck.

“ _Oh!_ ” You gasped, as he curled his fingers; he suckled you as he stroked in a lazy, languid finger-fuck, massaging the rough cluster of nerves within your body. Your mouth was open, and you might have been drooling on Geralt’s lap. The Witcher stroked your hair as if you were a house-pet.

“You should see her face, Jask’,” Geralt growled, “I think she wants to come.”

“Please!” You enthused, “I want…” Jaskier’s fingers picked up their pacing, and your eyes rolled back. “Unngh, _fuuuck._ ”

“Say it, baby,” Geralt commanded, “ _Say it,_ or he won’t let you.”

Jaskier hummed in agreement, the vibration of it almost sending you over the edge – but the bard knew your body, knew how to keep you on the painful precipice of orgasm without stimulating you to satisfaction. You wanted to squirm, but knew it’d do you no favours.

“ _Please_ let me come, master,” You begged in breathy bursts, “I wanna come. Please.”

“That’s a good little whore.” Geralt praised, the claw of his voice at your ear, “Such a lustful thing, you are. Come for Jaskier, baby.”

The bard brushed his teeth just-so against the hood of your clit, fingers deep within you, and you were helpless to do anything but comply. He kept up a fierce rhythm through the clench of your orgasm, Geralt leaning forward to assist in holding you still – because you couldn’t help but thrash as the spasms overtook your whole body – and you screamed your release as Jaskier jealously tongue-fucked the come streaming from your cunt, coaxing your body into riding the crest as long as possible. When you were flinching more in overstimulated pain than pleasure, he kissed your swollen folds and withdrew. Geralt’s grip eased on your hips, and you collapsed into the mattress.

“You look so damn gorgeous, all fucked-out slutty for us.” Geralt praised, and you absolutely glowed. “Jaskier is right – you’re _made_ for this. Nothing but a pleasure-seeking bitch.” His teeth nipped your earlobe, and you shivered. “Lucky we found you. Who knows what you’d do out there in the big wide world to get off, hmm?”

“You’re best here with your masters, baby.” Jaskier agreed, and you had enough presence of mind to hum in approval.

“So… lucky.” You were regaining your breath, and your senses. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby. You’re a good girl.” You felt like you couldn’t beam any brighter.

“Kiss me already, Jask’,” Geralt commanded in a broody growl, “I want to taste her.”

You looked up as they embraced – because you were a little voyeur, you’d admit it – and shivered as they traded sweeps of tongue, Geralt licking the salt of your pussy from his lover’s lips. “Fuck.” You hissed, the recently-sated ache in your cunt beginning to throb again. They always knew exactly how to tease you.

“What is it, baby?” Jaskier asked; he played the part of innocent so well, what with those wide distant-horizon blues, framed by his dark lashes. His pink lips were stubble-swollen.

“I want… to make you both feel good, too.” You admitted, rolling over, curling your hands against the sides of your chest like a pleading puppy – because you knew that Geralt had a soft spot for you begging like that. As you predicted, he grinned, all ivory intention. You responded by opening your mouth, tongue-tip curling, and they exchanged a glance with each other; gold on blue.

“Whatever you want, baby.” Jaskier conceded, sliding off the bed. You watched him walk around it to where Geralt was sat; the Witcher carefully moved from beneath you, standing as well. Wriggling, you let your head hit the edge of the mattress, tilting it back slightly. It was such an inviting sight that both men made a noise, and there was suddenly a rush to get their offending breeches unlaced. They were both deliciously hard, and you felt a giddy bubbling of joy when you realised it was because of you and your reactions. Jaskier was leaking sticky precome, and you saw Geralt’s slow, steady pulse in the veins of his dick.

When they got close enough, you lavished attention upon them. Your tongue ran up the underside of each man’s shaft, slick; you knew that Jaskier was weak for you at a very specific point on the ridge of his curved cock, and you knew that Geralt favoured the occasional scrape of teeth at the middle of his thick dick. Pressed closely together, their flesh quickly became one, although they traded turns with the sweet suction of your lips, shallowly fucking your mouth with small thrusts. The lubrication of your saliva provided enough of a sinful slip for their cocks to rub in friction together, adding to the pleasure of your double blow-job.

“Fuck she looks _hot_ with your cock in her mouth.” Jaskier complimented, his voice a feral husk. Geralt could only moan in response, enjoying the pop of your lips around his blunt, sticky head. “You fucking _love_ this, don’t you, baby?” Jaskier’s hand fisted your hair, and tugged. He was answered with a moan as Geralt sprang free from your lips, and you laved the bard’s length eagerly, drooling. He laughed darkly.

“Cock hungry,” Geralt panted, “Bet she could come just from this.” He rubbed against Jaskier, and you felt them both throbbing, nosing the tightness of their balls, aware that they were close. And fuck, Geralt was not wrong – so were _you._ “Do it, baby.” The Witcher demanded, “Touch your whore cunt and _come._ ”

You didn’t need to be told twice; once given permission, your hand flew between your legs, pressing the engorged swell of your clit with enthusiasm. Your moans rolled up their lengths as they fucked against your lips, your tongue; you knew they were watching you get off. It was a perfect storm.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Geralt, easily overwhelmed with his enhanced senses, was the first to lose control, “Little bitch, fuck, I’m _fucking coming._ ” The wild timbre of his voice made you boil with heat; you felt the first scalding ribbon of his come hit your thigh – he was so worked up – but subsequent jets spilled over your breasts as he hunched forward, growling, his dick pulsing fiercely against your lips. The sight was too much for Jaskier’s resolve, too; seconds after Geralt came, he followed, striping your prone body in a criss-cross of come, a sinful splash.

“Ohhh Gods, fuck, she’s so— _fuck_ she’s so _good._ ” He ground out, flexing bodily with the bliss. He trembled and streaked your chin, your lips, the noise of their combined pleasure one of the most satisfying sounds in the shell of your ears.

Your back arched off the bed as you peaked again too, effortlessly, barely needing stimulation. The warmth of their seed was so erotic, the different tastes that dripped on your tongue, the way they degraded and adored you in a twisted dance that was a unique dynamic you shared in trust and love. You might have squirted on the sheets, you didn’t know; might have screamed their names, you didn’t know. For a long time you just fell freely, trembling in the grasp of filthy climax, letting the sound of their panting and aftershocks fuck with your own.

Jaskier, ever dramatic, collapsed beside you. You were whimpering, and he nuzzled into your neck, aware of your tells; this was the aftermath of release, not distress. Geralt was gone, and then back again with a warm washcloth, gently cleaning your body. His touch made you tremble.

“What a _mess_ , baby.” He mused, and you heard the playful toy of his tone, “Who did such a scandalous thing to our precious flower?”

“Two… _blaggards_.” You murmured, grinning, “…Hot ones, though.”

Jaskier laughed, and kissed you briefly, chastely. You curled and snuggled into the fuzz of his chest hair, feeling the bed dip as Geralt joined you. As he slotted behind you, you tilted your head and kissed him, too.

“There will be bad days, baby.” Geralt’s words were serious, wise, “But you know we’ve got you, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t pay your mood enough mind at the door, precious heart.” Jaskier’s rare nickname for you gave his words gravity. “I will work on being more mindful. But Geralt is right. We’ve got you.”

“Thank you,” You whispered, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Baby,” Jaskier drawled, “You take care of _us,_ too.” Joyously, you nosed his jawline. “You wanna sleep naked? You don’t have to wear your collar tonight.”

“No,” You requested, smiling sweetly, “I’d… I like it on. Please.”

“Just as I’d gotten comfortable…” Geralt complained, but you heard the lightness of his tone. He heaved himself up, the pad of his footsteps against the floorboards soft, before he returned to the bed. He eased himself back down, and you felt the familiar leather encircle your throat, notched comfortably; the tag at the front was made from obsidian, carved by Geralt’s hand, and bore both of your master’s initials.

Now that you felt complete again, you let yourself cuddle into their joint embrace, exhausted, and slipped into a well-deserved catnap. Dinner, chores, bathing – the white noise of the world could wait.

They had you. You had them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I can also be found on tumblr: @inber


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